


Loss, Pain, Grief, Love… and Writing. (Spirk)

by FantasmaAlineal



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 09:45:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2543120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasmaAlineal/pseuds/FantasmaAlineal





	Loss, Pain, Grief, Love… and Writing. (Spirk)

**Title** : Loss, Pain, Grief, Love… and Writing.  
 **Authors** : [](http://alinealghost.livejournal.com/profile)[**alinealghost**](http://alinealghost.livejournal.com/)    
 **Editorial Collaborators** : [](http://brihtuhn.livejournal.com/profile)[**brihtuhn**](http://brihtuhn.livejournal.com/)   , [](http://katrinna-le-fay.livejournal.com/profile)[**katrinna_le_fay**](http://katrinna-le-fay.livejournal.com/)   
 **Universe/Series** : ST XI  
 **Rating** : PG13.  
 **Relationship status:** First time. Mentions of past! Pike/Spock and Uhura/Spock.  
 **Word count** : ~ 4,500.  
 **Genre:** Drama, Hurt-comfort.  
 **Warnings** : Tons of Vuhlkansu. For read, pass the mouse over the Vulhkansu.  
 **Summary** : To recover from the shock of the loss of their world and to compensate for the deaths of so many _ohakausu_ , the Vulcan Science Academy (VSA) has implemented a initiative to assist all _Orishansu_. This fic concerns Spock's conscientiously following this mandate from the VSA.  
 **Track;**[  Alibi](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5HA-QFLJzg) 30 Seconds to Mars.  
 **Notes** : Vulcan calligraphy and editorial collaboration, by Osu Briht’uhn and Ltt. Kat Le Fay. Pic of ‘Spock’s writing’ by Josh.Typos and stylistic errors are mine. A zillion thanks in advance for reading and for your comments. Also, this is my FIRST FIC published in this community (but not my first spirk fic in English, however.) More thanks in advance for your support!

—AlinealGhost

-0-

“This is a task that requires execution…” The voice, although void of inflection, clearly conveyed its message as a statement; not a question. The Venerable Svrai nodded on screen as Spock contemplated the directive.  
 _Ho-rah t’Mavohrekan_ —The Ritual of Anchoring—typically reserved for mourning an overwhelming loss. Perhaps the most serious for a Vulcan being that of one’s partner. Traditional ministrations via expert telepathic touch could also relieve the pain of sudden psychic amputation from a spouse—at least for a few months—until the Anchoring could come to the survivor’s aid. But now, after the Immeasurable Loss, in the misery cast by this Va’Pak, the miniscule number of remaining ohakausu, the cherished healers, could not even begin to serve the entire population.

And the few Vulcans that remained had come to a conclusion; instead of becoming faded and defined by it all, they had to purge the feelings of loss... or the entire species would likely simply succumb.  
Spock had already noted the two statements: from the pitiful total of roughly 25,000, at least three hundred of them had expired, with no apparent cause save mental anguish.

Svrai noted the concentration of the young half-human before him and his implacable control. The elder was moved to compassion and tenderness. Invaluable now; this child of two worlds, who had survived a persecution in his youth of which few Vulcan children could ever even conceive.  
The healer did not smile, but the corners of this eyes, betrayed the his sympathy for the man, Spock.  
Svrai spoke.

“Much is said about the vice-like grip we keep on our emotions, Sa-fu. But, it is incorrect to claim that we do not feel; or that we condemn our young offspring to a fate of unrelenting illogical repression. We maintain the facility through which we might express emotion, and in this case, it is necessary that these emotions be purged from each one of us, each in his own creative fashion. Hence, this proposal by T’Amar…”

Spock looked away. Svrai had called him Sa-fu. Son.

All remaining Vulcans had become welcomed as worthy children—even this one—once considered a bastard hybrid; as if a flower had wed a spider and born him as their abominable boy.

He remembered his uncle, Taklan, and Sava and HunTak-Selek. And T’Amar. All of them followers of Ohalovaya, the path of calligraphy, a domain of logic for the art of creating art... Commoners, but not ignorant, free of the pull and machination of any maat, artists selling their works on the street corners of Shi’Khar, with little emotional discipline in their workmanship, and a life led as nomads, not always embraced by the rest. Had they dwelled on Terra, “Gypsies”, one might be tempted to whisper in passing.

Pain strangled his heart,reducing its flow of blood and forcing him to take drastic, yet silent measures to regain his composure.

_oNn’tiri!_!… _I promised Taklan that I’d buy some of his calligraphy for my quarters on board the Enterprise and I never went back for it, I thought there would be time and… O Mother Goddess..._  
He took a deep breath and faced Svrai.

“What is the procedure, Osu?”  
“Are you in possession of _tanovau-tukh t’elru-kitaun_?”

Spock nodded, briefly, suppressing the pain, although it had been Sarek who set him off along the path of the Honorable Journey, Ohalovaya—or Snovek’s Road—the elegant art of calligraphy; it had been Amanda who had armed him with the complete set of supplies, the green leather bag spotted brown, fashioned from some fragment of le-matya hide, containing all the tools of the calligrapher: spahk-neshuk-fek, the sehlat claw pen; yar-dun, the viridescent papyrus; and s’gagerat ink, taken from the living plant... a mortally risky thing considering its carnivorous, predatory inclinations. They had been known to devour mature sehlat—whole.

“I recommend that you replicate the ink before beginning; to conserve it. There are no more s’gagerat from which to extract replacements. And there won’t be; until we’ve effected a clone, which of course is no priority at this time.”

“Affirmative.”

“The task will require several sheets of yar-dun. I make the same recommendation regarding the prudence of replication.”

"I grasp the goal of this therapy, oSvrai, but what is the prescribed methodology?”

“You must execute the ritual steps of the Anchoring. As soon as emotional reactions manifest, let your katra merge with the flow and persist through to the conclusion.”

“A’rip’an?”

Svrai raised an eyebrow intimating surprise. A’ri’pan were verses not dissimilar to the Terran haiku of the Japanese.  
“Negative. The form of A’ri’pan is too limiting. You must use the necessary paper, regardless of the number of pages. Once done, and irrespective of how long you have taken, you will review and contemplate it. It is possible that the text will lack coherence. This is of no importance. Your feelings, the raw emotion, must flow over the yar-dun, which is why you must use proper vanu-tanauf-kitaun and not simply scratch it out quickly in elru-kitaun.

Curiosity invaded Spock. It was no simple feat to abandon the common private script in favor of of its very distant, ostentatious, ceremonial cousin.  
“Might I inquire why?”

Svrai almost smiled.  
“It is s mourning ceremony, Sa-fu, Tapan t’Va’Pak. It is a path to reconciliation for our pain, our loss, the process is not intended to be simple. The vanu-tanauf-kitaun and ohalovaya in and of themselves require concentration, balance, and harmony for a successful result. And your genetic inheritance will contribute to its beauty...”

“Osu …”

The healer interrupted him, raising a hand in the khartaya t’kroika.  
 _Stop, you must not challenge this.  
_  
“I know this will pain you further during the execution. And I know that your human side will purge the feeling in a tangible, physical way...

An image formed on the screen.  
Van Gogh’s ''Starry Night”. Spock did not conceal his astonishment and soon Svrai’s face reappeared.  
“Yes. This human experienced stages of indescribable, illogical suffering. And thanks to that, his katra produced beauty—a perfection of beauty—so realized despite the illogical circumstances of its creation; the force of it simultaneously, utterly logical. I expect no less of you, Sa-fu. _Sochya na’du ...”_  
Be in peace.  
No 'Live long and prosper', no.

They did not utter those words except as a function long, proper goodbyes... and no one of late wanted to take one’s leave. The fear of being so few now—in stark contrast to having been a race that dominated an entire quadrant of the galaxy, along side its partners in the Federation—permeated them all.  
Spock nodded in kind.

-0-  
“What did he say?”

The Vulcan curbed his reaction in front of the captain, who predictably remained inquisitive and curious... and disrespectful like a small child. It was expected in a human.

“Our Healers have decided to modify the therapeutic approach toward the population’s well-being. Too few remain who have mastered the discipline of Kolinar and the need for stability is extremely urgent. We must... heal ourselves according to our own abilities.”

Jim gasped.

“But ... Spock, if I may... Can you do that?”  
The Vulcan commander nodded—unconvincingly.

“There are a number of specific rituals that I have been commanded to perform, for the sake of my state of mind, Captain.”  
"It’s ‘Jim’.”

“Jim.”

"It’s ‘Jim’ because you want it to be ‘Jim’ and not because I order it, Spock…”

“Oh God, stop arguing!—McCoy interrupted—Spock, listen to me. As the ship’s medical officer I need to know. Does this process involve any risk to you?”  
The Vulcan seemed briefly puzzled.

“I can not state something that I do not know, Dr. McCoy. The Anchoring Ritual normally presupposes a certain threshold of physical pain. But, we are not under normal circumstances. I’m afraid that I do not have sufficient data regarding the certainty of any potential risks to respond to your question.

“Be specific. A little less Vulcan mumbo jumbo, if you don’t mind.”

Spock refused to sigh, or roll his eyes.

“My species is endangered. At the same time, we are individuals who are under the stress of mourning for our own personal losses. 300 survivors have died from what you would likely call ‘sorrow’. Our healers have theorized that a physical expression of that suffering—allowed in a way that does not maintain strict control over it during the course of the experience—will enable a catharsis that may be able to expunge—if not all of it—at least a considerable portion. That will generate a 70.45% overall stability of psychological wellness in our population. And should effect an appreciable reduction in the number of deaths.”

McCoy understood instantly.

“Tight boots, eh?”

Spock maintained a perplexed stare as Jim put his hand on the Vulcan’s shoulder.  
“You see, Spock, when you wear boots that are too tight, it is a tremendous relief to your feet when you take them off. However, the pain you feel from the tightness gets a bit worse in that moment; before it gets better. But, that’s the point when your feet actually begin to recover. Do you get me?”

“I do not see the logic of wearing tight boots in first place...”

-0-  
 _How am I supposed to write about what we meant to each other,_ _ _Ko-Mekh__ _, when I can’t even understand that you’re gone?_

_I’m expected to relinquish control of my pain. Yet I find myself unable to remember your name without also seeing your face, reflecting my agony._

_Where and in whose name must I expunge what I now feel?_

_How can your memory excuse itself from my mind, without my ceasing to be myself?_

_Where does my right to keep breathing come from, if nothing of you remains, if only your footprints remain in me, just memories, unexpressed love, pain and guilt for all this loss—simply brushed away?_

_What do I do, Ko-Mekh?_

_I never thanked you for being my mother. I never thought you loved me and did not believe in confronting you with any confession of such._

_I assumed you'd be there, despite knowing you were human and would eventually go—some day—one long before me._

_I thought ... so many things._

_That there would be time enough to find you, see your smile, feel your cool hand on my cheek and your voice saying that everything would be fine._

_Despite having been raised Vuhlkansu and having gone the way of Surak, I know that my interior is partially human and I have made mistakes in my efforts to deny that reality._

_And now, I must do this._

_And they depend on it; they who all my life forced that I suppress fully half of me, and restrict you to you, the human who gave me this life, which they now treasure more than the teachings of Surak himself._

_Today, that half-Vulcan is as important as one of them and the children who will come will never be rejected like it went for me._

_Because of you I learned to feel, to experience love. But I didn’t accord it the status of a valid emotion.  
I was taught that emotions are without merit and that we must control them, Ko-Mekh._

_I was taught that my human side was negligible, inferior, weak, of little intelligence and illogical._

_They taught me to be hypocritical—despite our IDIC—and I instructed myself in the art of how to survive the taunts of the others._

_I learned to hide my weakness, my lack of emotional control layered under my intelligence.  
And I managed to believe it was not necessary to love you._

_I set this logic aside, only too late, when I had you no longer._

_And yes, I miss you._

_When others like me are born, courtesy of this Va'Pak ... for them, life will be more kind and very different: their genes, intermingled or not, will be as valuable as those of the forefathers of my clan.  
No one will look down upon them, as they did me._

_Nobody will look up to you, because you're not with me. Anymore._

_There is something that intrigues me; most deeply._

_How could it be that you loved Sa-Mekh?_

_Perhaps I should explain this question, even though I had never considered it until I realized that I was capable of the same feelings and to be affected by them like a human... because I am one, too._

_Never before have I confided anything like this in anyone, or even clarified it for myself so transparently—as I do now—regretting it doubly in your absence, with no way to know what you’d think about it all, Ko-Mekh, and for my part I’ll only ever be able to guess._

_It is likewise baffling to me that I have known love for a series of humans, Christopher, Nyota, and Jim._

_Chris Pike was the first to accept me, in seeing beyond me, without fear or admiration. He just wanted me to become a better person, Vulcan, or Terran.  
I could hardly bear his rejection, when he refused to become my sa-telsu, although now, I realize the why of it._

_Nyota was not a mistake._

_She taught me two vital things; how much I longed to be loved and that it was not she who could provide me that affection.  
And this I also learned from her; friendship is essential for survival when something threatens to end us._

_Jim, finally, crystallized the crux of my search._

_Never before has it been so urgent for me that he know how I feel; this fear that the universe will end or something even more irrational and illogical might happen. It’s absurd and I know it.  
Doubts or not, I cannot hesitate. Not again._

_Ko-Mekh, It weighs heavily on me that you did not know him, like the absence of your conversation burdens my soul, the sakura-cha that you made in spring, the roses you watered in the evening, their petals singed by the broiling T’Khasi air; and your infinite obstinacy in growing them next to our indigenous svai._

_[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/alinealghost/pic/0000485w/) _

__

 

__**Dang-kital n’zhitanaf, Ko-mekh**  
Vesht e’oren-tor sadalau n’ozhika worla  
La’tam-tor svailar na’dor t’du  
Ko-mekh  
La eh svi’leh-teh-panu uzhik  
Pla-kurlar, kinkurlar heh ek’kur ovsoting  
Ki’shetal katra t’nash-veh u’nesh-mu’yor  
Ik dap-tor wehk-yel ik ki’zatrasha tu  
I’tilau k’mair-kusut  
Falek il samek’es  
Ugel’es  
Mu’gel’es t’deshkaya rik’vas ik po  
Fa’tadek-adir’es t’Shi’Kahr  
T’pid-kaiden t’Okunel Seleya  
T’lates svi’yut heh mashulek  
T’velik’es t’plomik-shur  
Na’asal-yem kanok-gadik — var’voh  
Ko-mekh  
Dungi rish-tor etek uf  
U’aush-kan-bu  
Opi’pak t’ko-mekh  
His t’sehlattra,  
T’pi’le-matya ra  
Za-gad nam-tor etek  
Hi nash-gad  
U’tam’a goh  
Wi vun-fator nam-tor uf  
Aisha’voh n’maf t’nash-veh  
Ko-mekh  
Shok’voh dah-bezhun t’nash-veh  
Glan-fama’voh rikwoning  
Tehn’tadek-adir’es t’du  
E’nam-tor pen-nil  
Na’ta rubilau nash-veh  
Dungi ki’rubai rim  
Ri dan t’Terra  
Ri vaferan t’yel  
Ri Va’Pak  
Ri ashaya t’nash-veh na’du  
Dungi ya’shakhvau nash-veh mapi’wak  
Dungi naglanshau  
N’uzh-kur  
Svi’leh-tehkuhlar t’svai  
T’meil-tukh  
T’uzh-ek’tallar  
N’ish t’ashaya t’du  
Kwonik – dromik  
Lerash-khush t’mokev-masu-tukh  
Ik kup-fer-tor n’yel••• 

_It should be poetry, Ko-mekh_  
I never knew how to extract myself from logic  
Flowers dance in your name  
Ko-mekh  
here and in a thousand new worlds  
blue, yellow and myriad colors  
My katra is the dark of night  
strewn with the stars you left behind  
painfully stinging  
hot or frozen  
shining  
blackness of whys  
confronting the absence of Shi'Kahr, the  
stairsteps ascending Mount Seleya  
strolling through the streets and fountains  
the simplicity of plomeek  
at breakfast every morning, tell me  
Ko-Mekh  
How we puppies  
might survive  
the loss of our mother?  
How did the the sehlats persevere,  
the infant le-matya?  
How did we exist yesterday  
and today  
we are no more  
and yet we must continue?  
Let me mourn  
Ko-Mekh  
kiss my eyes  
blind me even for an instant to your  
absence  
A moment;  
for my adaptation.  
Nothing will actually have changed  
not the spin of Terra  
nor the fusion in the Sun  
nor the Va’Pak  
nor my love for you  
I will only have aged the fewest moments  
and will recognize  
a new color  
among the thousands of flowers  
of chemicals  
of new sciences;  
the one from your affection  
reliable, pure  
a Diamond of metallic hydrogen  
capable of creating new suns... 

Jim read the text over and over; Nyota had translated it flawlessly, so it was not necessary for him to be there, trying to decipher the complicated spirals of the vanu-tanauf-kitaun, but running his fingers over them was like touching the feelings themselves.

_**Jim, finally, crystallized the crux of my search.** _

_**Never before has it been so urgent for me that he know how I feel; this fear that the universe will end or something even more irrational and illogical might happen. It’s absurd and I know it.** _

_**Doubts or not, I cannot hesitate. Not again.** _

His heart raced as he read: the image of the pain, Spock’s love for his mother, the loss of his world, and in the end, this implicit declaration.

He assumed Spock was supposed to have destroyed the text. It was part of the ritual, to leave the feelings behind.

In the state in which he and McCoy had found him it was more than obvious that the wave of pain and self-imposed fasting had overwhelmed the young Vulcan.

And that was when Jim had noticed the ashes in the asenoi. And the half-burned text. A bit out of curiosity and partly for himself, he asked Uhura to translate it, and the tears of his lieutenant convinced him that yes, it was something intimate and precious and that he could not return it to its place, in the asenoi, among the coals.

He had failed to destroy it.

Jim would have to talk to Spock.  
When they reached Sagittarius...

-0-

Spock dropped the spahk-neshuk-fek; he was shaking.

He glanced at the writing paraphernalia and only then did he notice the spot on the palm of his hand. He had accidentally opened the skin with the sharp sehlat claw, and tainting the ink, the green of his blood threatened to stain the yar-dun.

Oh Well. It could save some work. He took the long and narrow strip of silk and stamped the mixture of blood and ink over it, pain and all.

Then he tied the sash across his forehead and around his skull, hiding the tips of his ears, that symbol that every Vulcan wore so proudly, like the intransigence of the Terrans, the Orions’ green, and each Andorian antenna—the left boasting equally with the right  
.  
They had only that; T’Khasi was no more. And for him as a half-breed, his ears now needed covering, because the blood flowing through them was Terran. He would display this countenance, for the space of three months in honor of his mother.

Of course, the mourning would never take its leave from his heart, but all external signals should demonstrate dignity and grace. And everyone would show reverence for that, repeating the words Tushah k'du. I grieve with thee.

Only then did he allowed himself to cry, natively, as would any member of his species.

It was the sound that snapped him out of it, Jim’s hands and McCoy's voice muttering something like “this stupid green goblin and his stupid folly, fasting for his inane damned ritual!”

And when the young volcano awoke, a blanket of all-pervading light; [Sagittarius A*](http://bitacoradegalileo.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/sagitario-a-hs-2009-28-g-compass_large_web.jpg) itself was not visible, but the swilrling arms of stars surrounding it glistened like a thousand flashes of light and though being so close to the center of the galaxy involved risk, the Enterprise conscientiously fulfilled her missions. Always.  
Jim's smile shined a googolplex more luminously than the actual stars.

Spock began to analyze his own vitals, bit by bit. No, nothing had changed, not his pulse, nor his love for Jim, nor his pain.

“Hey, are you okay?”

An objection that 'okay' was not an acceptable definition of his current state briefly crossed the Vulcan’s mind, but at the moment it would be quite useless to introduce the topic, so he just nodded, Jim tenderly stroked one of his cheeks.

\- “... May I?”

Just that small gesture; and Spock was undone. Jim leanined in over his face; tilted it slightly and looked into his eyes, as if asking in vain for permission.

The kiss was slow, like a cataract falling horizontally with the power of a tsunami, flooding the Vulcan, the touch of Jim’s tongue ordered him to open his mouth. His canines nipped at Jim’s lip, grazing the delicate skin. Spock tasted a hit of iron in the human blood as Jim smiled mid-kiss—with no intention of letting go—as if fresh oxygen had no import for either.

There would still be days of mourning—but more important—were the days of life ahead. Many. So many.

The incredible starlight combined with Jim’s smile, eased the tenebrific gloom in Spock's katra.

The night outside —that monstrosity made of eyes and dreams—had written upon itself an abundance of new hope.

Spock allowed his head to sink into the pillow, and caressed by light, he drifed off in peace.

And though Vulcans do not dream, the voice of his mother, and her laughter, moments from her life, and her presence permeated him, wrapping him in a warm wave of sleep.

-0-

_I used to hate myself—my mother taught me well—and you put a stop to that image of my worthlessness. I was just a farmer boy, poor and despised, but you; the last of the princes of your species! you had every right by societal norms to treat me like a fragment of refuse, nothing more and nothing less._

_Yes, I took away your captaincy and stripped you of that thin iron mask of stability. I humilliated you by making you feel—something—anything. I threw our equality in your face; I with nowhere to go and you, motherless, without even your world, without any equal—which was only ever an illusion anyway, Spock, because you are unique._

_Unique to the last. Only you can be you._

_I love you now, and it began the moment I laid eyes on you coming down the stairs of the auditorium; and in every encounter with you since; even when we saved the Earth together._

_And I know that in another universe, under its different laws (and perhaps in all of them in every dimension) the other you loved me, so infinitely that I (was I, really?) able to destroy the Enterprise; and so strongly that this affection brought me back to save you—and everyone else._

_But I can not hope and dream; and even less since I read what you've written.  
I don’t want to know anything about you, Spock. Please, I beg you._

_When our mission is over and you return to Vulcan II, to be with your own, I'll be happy for every day you stood by my side, despite not having you. Under your hands, the keyboard glows and the fabric of our whole ship remains in tact..._

“Captain?”  
Jim turned away from writing on the PADD.  
“Yes, Mr. Spock?”  
 _  
And you say something; about diplomatic missions; and zenite. And I allow myself to get lost in your eyes for a moment, yes, I am pathetic, an idiot, the incarnate ass of McCoy’s claims—oh sweet McCoy, who loves me in his own nefarious style..._

_Your fingers on my cheek batter me like a photon torpedo striking the Enterprise._

“Jim… are you unwell?”  
 _  
And it’s quite late—you masage my tear between your fingers, analyzing it like some wonderful specimen. I don’t manage to acknowledge or even comprehend your gesture, even less the backs of your fingers on my cheek, warm and soft, providing me some slight, sweet consolation._

_I’m not conscious of my reaction or yours, the alarm screams and reflexes jump, mine, yours, the whole crew collectively, even the ship’s hairs stand on end mirroring those of the 30 Klingons in their Bird of Prey._

_The attack ends as soon as it began, the interloper is on the run, wounded, limping and it is my job again to be captain and forget about you and your eyes—as if that were possible—only because my heart is divided into two pieces; the larger is yours and the smaller belongs to my first officer, and that is the one that I allow to be seen._

_In the dark of night, the insomnia, my only faithful companion since childhood, I count the stars from Observation Deck 9._

_I recall the tender warmth of your touch._

_Damn! I curse and curse and curse, I never should have kissed you as you were just awaking from your ordeal, no..._

_I silence my own quiet ‘why?’s until my view of the entire galaxy spills from my eyes._

“Why are you crying, Jim? Why have you been crying?”

_All that I am jumps at the sound of your voice and suddenly I’m recomposed and terrified and surprised and relieved. I cannot deny anything. My neurons are paralyzed. I pray that you’ll assume that I am only an irrational, illogical human, who cannot control his emotions, spending time alone._

_I am mute; your mouth muzzling me, warm lips on mine, with the starry sileng emptiness outside and your hands on me in here—sweet and burning—and I dissolve; drowning in my tears and your saliva and your kisses and the whole of your body._

_You will discover in my mind that I have read your swirling handwritten secrets, yet I do not care, because now I only know that I love you._

_I love you._

_Tour the galaxy to Mu-Hercules completing its Saros cycle, and in each segment, the species that we comprise rehashes peace or war or some other inanity in our infinite, intricate webs._

_Beneath your hands, Spock, I forget all of that and I surrender myself entirely to you as if each of my atoms, every quantum, every ray of my light, were not already yours._

_-0-_


End file.
